Hello! I'm back again, with a new story. This is just a little prologue... I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it. I just don't have the time. I wrote this in one morning... I needed to write something... Anyway, wish me luck for my exams! ._.

Enjoy!

IMPORTANT: This takes place directly after THE EMPTY HEARSE.

Guy Fawkes indeed. Sherlock scoffed and shook his head; thank God they had caught Moran in time, that is, before he had managed to blow up parliament. That would have been a terrible mess. And Mycroft would have been pissed. Then again, Mycroft was probably already pissed. He had been pissed at Sherlock ever since he had rescued him from the gutter.

Sighing, Sherlock refocused his gaze on the street outside. Gently he moved the curtains to the side to peek out. A whole flock of reporters was standing outside, waiting for him. One man was leaning against the house on the other side of the street; he was reading a newspaper.

From his position by the window, Sherlock could only just see the masthead of the newspaper he was reading. It read: "#SherlockLives".

Sherlock rolled his eyes; it seemed history was doomed to repeat itself. Once, years ago, on the 31st of October 1981, he, a year and a half old baby, had been attacked by the Dark Lord Voldemort. The killing curse had rebounded, and instead had killed Voldemort's body, releasing the little piece of soul that had managed to survive all those years. On that fateful night, Sherlock, at that time still Harry Potter, had been hailed the 'Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of Voldemort.'

He'd been called so many names, at some point Harry Potter, then The-Boy-Who-Lived, then the Chosen One and finally The Saviour. That had been the end of him as Harry Potter.

Subconsciously, Sherlock's hand crept up to his forehead, feeling the faint outline of his thin scar. It was hidden, of course, by a strong glamour and no one from this life (with the exception of Mycroft) knew that it was there.

"Yoo-hoo!" Sherlock blinked at the sudden intrusion and he turned away from the window just as a few reporters started noticing that someone was peeking at the outside world. Mrs Hudson. How had he failed to notice her? Usually he noticed these things - Mycroft had drilled it into him to always stay alert. Usually Sherlock knew who was about to come up the stairs before they even took their first step.

Mrs Hudson was setting a tray on the coffee table; it was filled with all of her celebratory biscuits, a tea-pot and two tea cups. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the display of food. That many biscuits would have taken a lot of time and effort to make, evidently she was happy for John and Mary. One would think after all these years of playing matchmaker for John and Sherlock that she would be disappointed.

Mary was in the next room, talking to lestrade, who had come to celebrate John and Mary's engagement. Molly had also promised to come, albeit with her new boyfriend, who Sherlock was admittedly not very interested in meeting. Mrs Hudson shot him one last Mrs Weasley-like smile, grabbed a glass of champagne and her tray and left the kitchen.

Before Sherlock could compose his thoughts and follow him, his phone rang.

"Mycroft," Sherlock intoned upon seeing the id of the caller.

"Sherlock, please, I beg of you, you can take over at the interval!" Mycroft exclaimed. In the background, Sherlock could hear the song 'Do you hear the people sing' from the musical Les Miserables. Evidently, Mycroft had promised his mother and father that he'd watch Les Mis with them and had now dug his own grave.

Sherlock smirked and donned his suit jacket, "Oh, I'm sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There's nothing I can do to help."

Ever since that day, right after the war, that Harry had o'd and Mycroft found him in the gutter he had been forced to call Mycroft 'brother'. While they were third cousins of some sort, they weren't blood brothers (although Sherlock sometimes had the feeling that they fought so much that they could very well be brothers). The war had been hard on Sherlock - he had lost many friends and the last shreds of his innocence.

Mycroft had recognised his cold intelligence, and had taken him in. Mycroft's mother had been more than happy to take care of him for the next few months while Sherlock went through withdrawal. Then, his brother had sent him to a proper University to actually learn something. During that whole time, Sherlock Mycroft had taught about the world; about people, their manners, psychology and idiocy. And then, Mycroft had released him back into society as a smooth, intelligent consulting detective. Sherlock owed him much, and sometimes he even feared that he cared for the man as one might care for a friend or a brother. But he wasn't about to endure the torture of watching a musical with Mycroft's parents.

"But you don't understand the pain of it - the horror!" Sherlock smirked, partly because he understood, and partly because he was enjoying Mycroft's misfortune.

He hung up, just in time to see John appear in the doorway.

"Come on, you have to go down. They want the story." He was referring to the reporters all impatiently standing at their front door.

"In a minute."

On the way to the living room, Sherlock grabbed a bottle of champagne from the fridge and kneeled down at the coffee table to pour every one a glass of the bubbling liquid.

Conversation was lively; there was much talk about weddings and relationships. Even Lestrade, who's wife had divorced him was in a lively mood.

"This is Tom!" Came the warm voice of Molly Hooper and Sherlock spun around in shock; so far he had been surprised two times already. What was going on today?

Everyoneexchanged a few awkward hellos and Sherlock refrained himself from verbally attacking the man. What was Molly playing at? He looked remarkably similar to him!

Inwardly rolling his eyes (and trying very hard not to let his disbelief and disapproval show), Sherlock shook the man's hand and swept past him. John followed him into the vestibule, where Sherlock donned his trench coat and scarf.

"Ready?" He asked John who chuckled.

"Ready," John sighed as though he was stalling, then gathering his wits he said: "I'm still waiting."

"Hmm?"

"Why did they try and kill me? If they knew you were on to them, why go after me - put me into the bonfire?"

"I don't know, and I don't like not knowing." Sherlock pursed his lips and continued, "Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John real life is rarely so neat," he paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "I don't know who was behind all this, but I will find out, I promise you."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this?"

"Hmm?"

"Being back, being a hero again..." John trailed off at Sherlock's serious expression. No, he didn't enjoy it. Not one bit. Just as he hadn't enjoyed being Harry Potter. But at least, at least as Sherlock Holmes, he was famous for his own accomplishments.

"Oh, don't be stupid," Sherlock murmured

"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it." Sherlock did in fact hate the fame; was his acting that good?

"Love what?"

"Being Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean." He did in fact know exactly what it meant. And yes, if that was what John meant, then yes, he did love being Sherlock Holmes. He had the freedom now that he'd never had.

"Sherlock are you gonna tell me how you did it?" John folded his arms behind his back, "How you jumped off that building and survived?"

Apparation.

"You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible," Sherlock jested.

"No but seriously, Sherlock. When you were dead, I went to your grave-"

Sherlock smirked, "I should hope so."

"-I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you." John continued as though he had never noticed the interruption.

Sherlock, who had turned to the door, turned around to face his friend. "I know. I was there." John's eyes widened at that admission.

"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."

"I heard you," Sherlock replied softly. John's eyes were suddenly filled with emotion but as the typical Englishman, he refused to express it. His stance straightened as Sherlock reached for the doorknob. "Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes."

...

Elsewhere, a few hours away from London, on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon England, an area which was vastly dominated by the magical folk, was the Weasley house. It was not as it had been twenty years ago: Ron Weasley's job as an Auror was good and his wages large; Weasley Wizard Wheezes was prospering; and the rest of the brothers (and sisters) had managed to find good jobs and were earning well. As a fifty year anniversary gift for their parents, they had rebuilt the Weasley house into something studier and larger.

The house, however, was still filled with magic. The garden was filled with garden gnomes (who had refused to resettle - even during construction of the new house), and meals in the large kitchen were still prepared with magic. It was actually in this very kitchen that the whole Weasley family was currently eating their meal with the usual exuberance.

At the head, sat Mr Weasley and on the other side Mrs Weasley. At the lengths of the table, sat Hermione, now married to Ron, George, Bill, Charlie and Ginny - who sat next to her fiancee Seamus Finnigan.

"So, Hermione, I hear the Daily Prophet is making more profits than ever?" asked Charlie while reaching for the salt.

"Oh yes! Now that the ministry isn't controlling it anymore, we can finally print real news! Rita Skeeter also finally decided to retire last month, so everything is wonderful!"

Farther down along the table, Bill was involved in a serious talk with his father. Apparently, the ministry was starting to wobble again. It had been completely restructured after the war and all corruption had been nonexistent. Now, slowly, the power hungry politicians were starting to corrupt it again.

"Did you hear about that woman who got shot on Thor Bridge? Terrible business isn't it?" Seamus asked suddenly as Hermione started talking about the crime section in the Daily Prophet.The table quieted down slightly.

"Yeah, Jones - the Auror department head - wants to investigate it. Apparently the woman was wife to a senator from the United States magical government. As she was married to a wizard, they're forcing us to investigate," Ron muttered.

"There's a press conference on that matter on Friday - in Scotland Yard. I have a scheduled interview with a Detective Inspector," Hermione said with a sigh, "It's all very tragic of course." The was a sudden lull in conversation as all this talk of death reminded them of days when they would fear walking out the front door.

This lull in conversation allowed Hermione to look away from her conversation partners and instead let her gaze sweep the room. Finally her eyes fell on a picture frame hanging on the prime spot in the kitchen. It was of the Weasleys, herself and Harry. They were smiling and waving at the camera, eyes wide and innocent. It had been taken before her sixth year; in a time when they were still innocent and naive about the tragic war yet to come.

Her eyes wandered towards Harry's smiling face and she sighed. They had looked for him during the first ten years; after that, the minister had declared him dead. But somehow, deep in her heart, she knew her best friend wasn't dead. And after all these years; after two children, and many birthdays, she still longed to see her friend.

Little did she know that very, very soon, she would meet her best friend again.

To be continued or not to be continued?